Post navigation

Mental gymnastics

For this week’s list, I thought I’d “out” some of my stranger mental associations. You know, all those random things that lead Mr. But IF to ask (silently if he’s smart about it!), “Wait, how’d we get there from here?” Without further ado…

“I miss my pain in the ass. F this door!”

During my last failed pregnancy, we tried to save it by switching from yummy vaginal Crinone suppositories, to a combo of Crinone and progesterone-in-oil (PIO) injections. Think a needle the size of the one in my header picture straight to the ass check every day for 7 weeks, and you’ve pretty much got it covered. I tolerated the injections just fine (I am super woman afterall), and I actually worry Mr. But IF kinda liked giving them to me (but that’ll have to wait for another post, preferably one I drunk type), but, even still, day after day of 22 gauge needle to the behind leads to some soreness. Combine that ache with a job that finds me opening heavy, locked doors, hands-full, and needing to allow said doors to slam on my bottom lest be locked out, and I get, at very least, 4 or 5 physical reminders of my non-pregnant state every day. There’s one particular door that does it to me every time. I grimace as it starts to swing shut behind me, preparing for the inevitable jolt of pain I’ll receive as it makes contact with my bruised derriere, then get immensely sad when no pain results. Two months since my last PIO injection, and that damn door catches me unaware every time.

“Yay, it’s regional conference time… again.”

I may be weird, but I actually tend to enjoy my profession’s conferences and annual meetings. An opportunity to get out of my freezing cold office and into a freezing cold conference center? Hells yeah! Mainly, I enjoy networking with others in my field that “get it” and who I only get to see on rare occasions. Renewed love for one’s calling and all that. There’s one exception, though. Due to a certain muscle memory, I despise one particular bi-annual conference. It was at the spring 2010 meeting of said conference that Mr. But IF and I had our first session of “We’re gonna make a baby!” sex. (In our hotel room, you pervs, not on stage mid-session.) That damn conference is coming up yet again next week, and aside from the IF reminder it offers, I’m doubly cranktastic because it’s gonna put a huge damper on my National Infertility Awareness Week festivities. The panel I’m chairing better not suck, I tell you!

“Why, hello herbal tea bag. Screw you!”

During my last pregnancy, I was a good little girl and switched from my mega-cup of coffee to quaint little herbal teas. (With an office typically in the low 60s, I need something warm in me in the mornings. Oh, and get your mind out of the gutter Mr. But IF!) The first thing I did after the heart beat stopped was ask Mr. But IF to stop in at the local coffee joint on the way home from our ultrasound appointment. I had the largest, most amazing cup of java that day, and I haven’t looked back. (I’ll go back on the wagon as soon as I know we’ll be cycling again.) Still, one lonely little blueberry tea bag sits in the top drawer of my office desk. Each and every time I see it I say a few choice words. Yea, I could move the bag, but what am I if I’m not a masochist?

“Hooray, more lead paint chips! So glad we’re too mentally messed up to adopt!”

When we moved this summer we bought a grand old lady of a house over twice the size of our former modest mid-century Cape Cod. But, as with most old ladies, this house has some pretty rocking stories to tell and an age-old sense of style, but she’s a little worse for the wear. Long story short, we live in a residence better defined as ruin than retro. We know she needs work, and we’re anxious to do it. Honestly, aside from the pristine location and bargain basement price tag, I think the neediness of this old house was part of the charm. We may not leave children to this world, but we’ll be damned if we don’t serve as amazing stewards to this house! As we enter our 9th month in the house we’ve yet to have the time, money, or opportunity to do much work. The big projects need the long days, open windows, and contractors one can only obtain in the summer. That doesn’t stop me, however, from linking our house’s current state of ill-repair to our reproductive challenges. Each time I hop out of our claw-foot tub (sounds quaint, eh? not really), I spy more peeling lead paint chips on the bathroom floor. And, of course, they instantly remind me how horridly our house would do if we ever opened it up for a home study for either traditional or (in many cases) embryo adoption. Commence the inevitable slippery slope of angry emotions that begin when I’m reminded of the great differences that separate the act of becoming pregnant (something any drug-addicted teenager can do) and opening your heart and home to the extraordinarily invasive adoption process. But, peel away lead paint. The kitties love how you taste!